


Different Kinds of Control

by Skalidra



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BDSM, Dom/sub, M/M, Passive-aggression, Service Submission, Slade isn't crazy, Yes you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10690848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Oliver has two different doms with two very different styles, and most of the time he keeps them completely separate. God knows what would happen if Slade found out about how easily Anatoli can bring him to heel, but, well, he guesses that since Slade can't keep hands off his phone, now he's about to find out.





	Different Kinds of Control

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaha, I don't even know. There were all the Russian flashbacks, and that lent itself to some really like, old-fashioned dom/sub feels, and then somehow a friend and I got onto the idea of Slade vs Anatoli in terms of dom style, and what if they met, and then _suddenly_ here was this _thing_. This sucker took me so many months to finish, because as I found out halfway through, old-fashioned dom/sub really isn't my thing. But I persevered, so, enjoy!
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Someday, he'll figure out how Slade always seems to know precisely where his bruises are. He'll know how Slade can step up beside him when they're working on some lead together and reach over and grip his lower arm in _just_ the right place to dig fingers into the bite marks on it.

He barely flinches, but Slade chuckles, twisting the grip on his arm to pull him a step closer.

"Been playing with the Russian again, Ollie?"

He's been doing this too long to shiver like he wants to at the husk of that voice, even as he gets pulled over and Slade steps up against his back. He swallows instead, which isn't that much better but it's at least a little easier to hide.

"Slade, we have work to do."

Strong fingers tug his sleeve up to his elbow, ignoring his protest and baring the fading bite marks on the underside of his forearm. Slade grips his wrist, twisting his arm to showcase them and holding it there. Not that he's actually going to fight it anyway. That's inviting Slade to _make_ him, and there's really only one way that can go.

"Does this really satisfy you, kid?" Slade asks, speaking right into his ear. The fingers drag up from his wrist, digging in _hard_ against the imprints of his own teeth.

Anatoli's in Russia — always — but his other dom keeps contact in his own way, through calls and the manipulation of his own limbs. Or teeth.

He grits his teeth at the dull pain, keeping his gaze aimed down at the table and the information displayed on the computer. "That's not your business; there are better things to be focusing on right now. Like, the _case_ that we—”

Slade grabs his other arm and twists it _sharply_ behind his back, dragging a grunt from him as his legs automatically spread a bit to stabilize. "You know, I think it _is_ my business. I'm the one who's gotta keep you even; does your Russian playmate actually think he can mimic what I do by making you bite yourself?"

He takes a shallow breath, still not quite struggling as Slade drags his bruised arm back too, twisting his shoulders until it aches a little.

"It's not that simple, Slade. You know it isn't."

"Yeah?" Slade wrenches at his shoulders, drags him off balance and bites _hard_ at the side of his neck as he gets his feet back under him. "What is it he does for you, kid?"

"Not your _business_ ," he stresses, twisting his arms against Slade's hands. "Let go. There isn't time—”

"Not time? Kid, you don't take that much effort." Slade's teeth rake across his throat, and the grip on his arms bends him forward, presses his thighs against the front of the table. "There's plenty of time."

He eyes the laptop open on the desk; debates how likely it is that Slade might just shove him on top of it. Probably not. Dangerously close, maybe.

"Come on, kid. You know I can make you talk if I want to." He hisses as Slade's fingers dig into his arm even harder; there will be bruises over his self-inflicted marks. "You really want to make me work for it?"

"Why are you so interested?" he grits out.

Slade bites the lobe of his ear hard enough to make him wince. "I like to know who's marking up my boy, and why he's letting them. You might be easy to bruise up, kid, but usually you don't help people do it."

Slade lets go of his arms, and he immediately turns to face him. Slade lets him, but then steps closer and boxes him in against the table, one knee shoving his apart. He pushes the laptop out of the way just in case, and either it's in reaction or just in time because Slade's hand presses to the middle of his chest and _slams_ him down onto the table hard enough that it knocks the breath out of him.

"Maybe I should pay your playmate a visit," Slade says, leaning down over him and gripping his arm again. "See what makes him interesting."

"Slade, _do not_ kill him."

"You think I'm going to?" Slade drags his arm up, twists it till his elbow locks straight and then lowers teeth to press them against his skin. "Now, why would you think I'd do that, kid?"

Slade bites down right over the top of one of his bite marks, and he grunts out a breath and then spits, "Maybe cause you're a possessive bastard?"

Slade laughs, free hand pushing up his chest and grabbing a handful of his shirt at the collar, knuckles pressing against his throat. "Only for you, kid. So what's the little Russian doing for you?"

He swallows against the hand pressed to his throat, lifting his other hand and grabbing at Slade's wrist. "Slade, knock it off."

"Tell me," Slade demands, and bites him again, over a different mark. "What are you doing playing with Bratva, kid?"

He glares. "I _am_ Bratva," he points out. "He just treats me different, alright? It's not important."

Slade smirks down at him, pressing harder into his neck for a second but letting his arm bend again, pushing down to pin it against the table beside his head. "Yeah? Different how? Must be something, to keep you coming back."

He twists Slade's wrist, pushing it away from him and tugging at his pinned arm, though that doesn't come loose at all. "Just different."

Slade loosens the grip on his arm enough to let him curl off the table. It's work, with one arm partially pinned and the other busy keeping Slade's hand off his neck, but he manages to get a couple feet up. Until Slade lets go of his arm, puts that hand on the center of his chest, and drives him back down into the table with enough force to stun him again.

"Not good enough, kid. You can do better than that."

He winces. Opens his mouth to just _curse_ at Slade because this is not a thing he wants to do.

His phone rings.

He freezes for a moment, and that moment is long enough for Slade to jerk his other hand free and shove it down into the pocket of his slacks to grab his phone. Then he jerks into action, but Slade cracks him into the table for a third time and steps away from him, _with_ the phone.

"Slade. Slade _no_."

"Well look at that," Slade drawls, looking at his phone. "It's your Russian buddy. How about I just ask him instead?"

" _Damnit_ , Slade!"

Slade answers the phone as he pushes himself up, smirking at him. "Well hello there. Remember me, Anatoli?"

"Slade, give me the goddamn phone."

Slade holds him back with a hand on his chest, and he's not quite crazy enough to really try for the phone with _both_ his doms right there, and _speaking_. Maybe he's a little concerned that Slade is going to decide to track down and kill Anatoli, but that's… only sort of likely.

“You know, I was just talking to the kid about you.” Slade’s voice is locked into that low drawl; the smug, confident tone that means he’s already lost. He glares anyway, trying to convey to Slade through pure force of will that he will be _very_ angry if this doesn’t stop. Or if Slade does anything that would damage the… whatever it is that he has with Anatoli.

He’s not close enough to hear whatever Anatoli says in response, but he gets shoved back an inch when he presses forward to try and get within reach of the phone.

“I was curious what you do that keeps my boy coming back; can’t say I’ve ever seen him bruise himself up just because he was told to.” Slade's fingers curl into his shirt, and the grin that curves Slade's mouth matches his voice. Smug, confident, and just a little bit vicious. “Usually he puts up a little more of a fight than that.”

“ _Slade_ ,” he hisses, trying to keep his voice low enough that the phone won’t pick it up.

The grin twists into something slightly evil, and he swallows on reflex. “Yeah, I can do that."

Slade pushes on his chest, walks him back until his thighs bang against the table again and he’s forced to lean slightly over it. Then the phone is lowered to the table, and he glances over at it to see Anatoli’s name (in the actual Russian) across the front. And the speaker symbol on. Oh _no_.

_"Oliver, lovely to see you're enjoying another's company in my absence."_

He winces at the sound of Anatoli's voice, and the slight censure to it. Anatoli _knows_ about Slade of course, but he maybe never really went into details. Slade and Anatoli know just about the same amount about each other; that he plays with them fairly regularly, but not on any kind of schedule.

"Well the kid can only get by on his own teeth for so long," Slade points out, and flashes him a sharp smile when he glares.

"Slade," he repeats, "knock it off. It's not the same kind of thing."

_"It seems you've been very impolite, Oliver. Not telling Mr. Wilson what it is you enjoy about our games."_

He swallows, glancing down at the phone and then drags his attention back to Slade — who is the far bigger threat, currently — to grind out, "Well it's not his _business_ what else I do."

Anatoli's voice sharpens. _"Is it not my business either?"_

"I—”

_"I would think that those you play games with have a right to know who else has taken control from you. You have not told me much about Mr. Wilson either, but I imagine what he does to you is quite different, if he has trouble believing you can be obedient without a physical hand. If I asked, I would expect to be answered, boy."_

"I like being hands-on," Slade comments, with the twist of a smirk. "Kid can be a brat, until you bring him down, but I can't say I don't enjoy the challenge."

 _"He knows better than to try such things with me."_ A brief pause, where he tries to come up with _anything_ to say, and then Anatoli says, _"Oliver, why don't we show Mr. Wilson how well you listen? I think a practical demonstration would suffice as an apology for the inconvenience."_

He squirms, running up against the hard wall of no _good_ options. Does he want to include Slade in Anatoli's brand of control? No, not really. But _refusing_ is such an impossibility that it doesn't even matter. Neither of them would push it, if he really had a serious problem with the idea, but it's not that at all. It's that _god_ knows what Slade will do with this kind of information. He's meaner than Anatoli is; he never gave Slade the kind of control that he fell into with Anatoli during his time in Russia.

Slade looks far too amused at how torn he must look, but both of them wait until he surrenders the battle and agrees with a quiet, "Yes, sir."

His head dips, eyes closing, and he takes in a deep breath, holding it for a couple moments before allowing himself to breathe out. He consciously forces himself to relax, to accept the idea that he is at the mercy of two men that he _trusts_ , and everything will be just fine. They know him, they know his limits, and they would never hurt him beyond what he can take.

Slade's hand lets go of his shirt, sliding up to brush over his throat instead and then tilt his chin up. He opens his eyes, meeting Slade's gaze and exhaling slow and even, sinking down into the right head-space. It's a little bit harder than usual, but then usually he doesn't have Slade looking at him like he's something to be eaten alive. Even when he was still in Russia, Anatoli didn't play with him in front of audiences. Not really, anyway. The Bratva are different; they're family and that's just how things are _done_ sometimes. There's no shame there.

"That's a good look on you, kid," Slade says, lifting the fingers on his chin up to brush a thumb over his lips. "Makes me want to get you screaming."

He swallows, shivering a little bit, but he doesn't have to come up with an answer to that before Anatoli reenters the conversation.

_"That sounds like a lovely idea. Would you mind doing me a favor, Mr. Wilson?"_

"Depends on what it is," is Slade's immediate answer. The thumb leaves his mouth.

_"I do not see my Oliver enough, and he is rather limited when it comes to satisfying that need. In the midst of this, would you mind taking a few pictures of our boy; whenever you think he looks the best?"_

Slade gives a small grin, and he has to take another slow breath at the idea of _pictures_. They would never share them; he knows that. Neither of them is interested in true, unpleasant, humiliation, or in truly ruining his life. _God_ he's lucky that neither of them are really cruel bastards, because they so easily could have been. The head of the Bratva, and a special ops soldier turned mercenary? They could easily have taken him apart if they'd wanted to; it isn't like he'd had much of a choice about the close-contact times that started these relationships.

The one with Slade especially.

"I might," Slade drawls, bringing him back out of his head. He watches as Slade steps back, deliberately. "Alright, you promised a demonstration. Impress me."

_“Oliver, strip down. All the way.”_

Slade takes one more step back as he moves to obey, flushing just a little at the way Slade is looking at him but not letting that stop him. He’s done so many things harder than taking his clothes off in front of one of his doms at the order of his second; he can do this. No problem.

He slips back into old patterns as he does, folding each piece of his clothing as he removes it and setting it aside in a neat pile. It’s not a show, and there’s no seduction or deliberate enticement required, only smoothness of motion. He’s fulfilling an order by his dom, nothing more, and he should do it without hesitation or pause. Unless specifically asked to perform, any action taken to deliberately irritate or attract Anatoli is an attempt to manipulate him into one response or another. That’s a guaranteed way to earn punishment.

When he’s shed the last of his clothing he straightens up again, letting his hands rest easy by his sides, his gaze somewhere in the center of Slade’s chest but not really seeing. If Slade steps in he’ll pay attention; until then, Anatoli is the center of his world. His voice, the only thing that matters.

He waits a little longer, keeping his breath slow and even, until there comes, _“Kneel.”_

Folding is easy, sinking down onto his knees, hands on top of his thighs and head held high. Only his gaze is lowered, resting on the cool cement floor between Slade’s feet. Slade shifts his weight, and his gaze snaps up towards Slade’s face. Then, when he meets the raised eyebrow and unimpressed look, he drags it back down, remembering that meeting the gaze of his dom is not something he’s supposed to do unless invited. Like touching.

_“Mr. Wilson, would you mind if I directed your hands? Oliver will give a decent enough show on his own, but it would be a better performance if you would grant me leave to have you play my place in this.”_

There’s a moment of silence — he doesn’t look up, no matter how curious he is — and then Slade grunts something like an affirmative and follows it with, “If I like what you’re telling me to do, I’ll play. No promises.”

_“More than enough. Thank you, Mr. Wilson.”_

“Slade’s fine,” is the correction. “Do what you’re going to do.”

_“As you wish. Oliver, you will treat Slade as my proxy in the room.”_

He exhales with a, “Yes, sir,” and readjusts himself to listen to Anatoli, but to treat Slade _as_ Anatoli. In a way. He can probably leave off the bits of Russian that would have been exchanged between Anatoli and him through the scene, which will be easy enough. Anatoli would always start the exchanges anyway, so he’ll only do it if prompted, like everything else.

 _“Now, were Oliver in Russia with me, normally I would have started a while ago, and had him serve as footrest or table for me while I attended to work. Or perhaps hold a strenuous position for an hour or two. You certainly trained the boy to stamina, Slade; my thanks for the excellent work.”_ Anatoli chuckles, and then continues, _“However, as beautiful as muscle tremors are, I imagine you are not interested in waiting a couple hours for the scene to culminate, so we’ll skip that.”_

“Good guess,” Slade says, on the heels of a snort.

_“Oliver, you know how to start.”_

It takes him a moment to move forward, coming to his hands and knees and lowering his head to the toe of one of Slade’s boots. These don’t have the polished, perfect shine — usually he was the one to do the polishing — of Anatoli’s boots or dress shoes. Slade’s boots are for combat; well-worn and well cared for, but not meant to look pretty. It’s a strange contrast; a detail he shouldn’t be focusing on, but can’t quite bring himself to ignore.

He kisses the toe of the first boot, chaste but lingering, and then shifts over to press another kiss on the other one. When he's finished he pushes back up, keeping his gaze lowered as he straightens, easing into both the stamina Slade drilled into him on the island, and the grace that Anatoli demanded in Russia.

He rolls his shoulders, crossing his wrists at the small of his back and keeping his breath slow and even; waiting for instruction. He can't quite help, in the silence that follows, taking one quick glance up towards Slade's face. Still unimpressed; arms crossed. He yanks his eyes back down, silently reprimanding his own breach of conduct (it's been a long time since he had to worry about actually meeting the gaze of his dom; Anatoli is halfway around the world and Slade has never _cared_ about formalities).

_"Slade, I assume you have lube somewhere in the room?"_

"Yeah," Slade almost grunts.

_"Excellent. Oliver; retrieve it."_

It takes him a moment to remember where Slade actually keeps it; squirreled away in the bag he'd brought in and dumped over by the firmly locked door. He takes a breath and crawls towards it, trying to remember exactly how to keep his movements as smooth as possible. He hasn't had to use skills like this in a while, what with Anatoli being across the world and Slade not giving a shit about any of this style of submission, but after a few moments of awkwardness it starts to come easier. Starts to feel familiar again.

He opens Slade's bag, finds the bottle, and heads back. He'd forgotten how odd it is to crawl with something in one hand, but he eases into that too. He sets the bottle at Slade's feet, and returns to kneeling.

 _"Now,"_ Anatoli starts, voice smooth, _"you've kept Slade waiting long enough. Work yourself open, and let him use you however he wants to. I'd recommend his mouth, Slade, but I imagine you already know how good that can be when he's motivated. You'll want to hold back for the main event though; be a shame to miss that."_

Oliver reaches for the lube even before Slade, voice a bit tighter than usual, says, "You're ordering him around, not me. Watch it, Anatoli."

 _"Of course. My apologies. I am surrounded by subordinates most days and it sometimes slips my mind that not everyone is one of them. Hazards of running large sections of a brotherhood such as mine, I suppose."_ Slade gives a low scoff, probably too low for the phone to pick it up, before Anatoli continues, _"You may do what you like, naturally, but my intention was to have Oliver prepare himself, and then ride you. The former will take a bit of time, so I imagined you would want to stay entertained. My apologies for the assumption."_

"What?" Slade asks, and begins to move; circling him as he reaches back with now slicked fingers and slides the first in. "Watching the kid fuck himself open isn't good enough to be entertaining?"

There's a small pause, then, _"You struck me as a rather more hands-on sort of man, I admit. Oliver's purpose, for the moment, is to serve. If you choose to make use of that, he will do as prompted. If not, he will do as ordered until another order is given. I didn't think you would prefer to watch and wait, Slade."_

Oliver shivers just a bit, sliding his knees a bit apart as he slides the second finger home, trying to ignore the half-argument going on over his head.

"You're not the only one the kid belongs to, Russian. Maybe you've forgotten what he looks like, but he's worth the attention and I don't have to be fucking him to appreciate how he looks; _hands-on_ or not." The footsteps stop behind him, and Oliver fights the urge to arch his back a bit and show off. That's manipulation, not service. "You do this kinky shit with all of your gang, or just the pretty ones?" Slade asks, voice slipping to a low, almost mocking drawl.

_"There are elements of it in most of our dealings. We're an old organization, and ritual persists in forms not so different from this; the ones who take to it often find themselves masters amongst their brethren, as Oliver did. He's served me better than most that I've tried, once he had a bit of extra care invested in him. You laid some decent groundwork in that regard, Slade, though I imagine that he was rather inclined to obedience to begin with. Hard to make someone enjoy this if they didn't have a talent for it to begin with, after all. Not impossible, but difficult."_

"You suggesting something?" Slade asks, voice gone cold.

Oliver closes his eyes, and pulls the two fingers apart to stretch himself further. More perfunctory than he normally would be, but that’s the point.

 _"Of course not,"_ Anatoli answers, though it's not hard to hear the small bite to his tone. _"I'm sure the start of your relationship was completely healthy."_

Slade scoffs, and he hears the footsteps start up again, circling back around him. "Yeah, and I'm sure that being his direct superior in your gang made for real healthy dynamics too. I helped the kid survive; what did _you_ do for him?"

_"I helped him fulfill a promise. He needed direction, and I gave it to him. Your time on that island certainly gave him a need to be guided; maybe he missed how you felt, Slade. Or maybe he wanted something new."_

"And yet here he is, with _me._ " Slade stops in front of him, but he doesn't open his eyes until he feels the slide of fingers through his hair. He looks up automatically, recognizing Slade's touch in the slight scrape of nails as it cups the back of his skull. Slade is watching him, something fierce and almost angry in his gaze, and he remembers Anatoli's expectations in a sudden rush, starts to look down and—

And Slade goes down with him, kneeling and pulling his head up to pull him into a rough, clearly possessive kiss. He almost short circuits, but Slade squeezes the back of his neck, bites at his lower lip, and then pulls away. Oliver opens his mouth to ask what it is, before he thinks, but Slade shakes his head and presses a hand to Oliver’s mouth. A rough smirk, and Slade is standing again, leaving him down on the ground.

“You’re just a voice on a phone, Russian.”

 _“And yet,”_ Anatoli echoes, _“there he is under my command. You do not inspire such obedience from Oliver.”_

“I don’t _try_. If I wanted someone with no spine, that’s what I’d have.” The hand returns to Oliver’s hair, scraping over his scalp with a relatively gentle touch as Slade gives a low laugh. “You’ve only got him under your heel as long as I don’t hang up the phone, and I don’t think you want to risk coming over here and meeting face to face, do you?”

There’s a small, telling pause, before Anatoli says, _“I have more important things to do than make a trip halfway around the world to settle your imaginary pissing contest. Those are the sorts of responsibilities that come from running your own business, Slade.”_

Slade snorts, this time loud enough that the phone definitely picks it up. “Imaginary. Sure.”

In the resulting silence, Oliver works a third finger in between the others, letting his eyes shutter and his teeth close briefly on his lip to ignore the slight burn. Rough is good, he’s known that about himself for years (and maybe wondered if that’s preference or just what he’s used to, not that he would mind so much if it was. He enjoys it, so what's the point of worrying if it's something he _learned_ to enjoy instead of enjoying naturally?)

_"Proximity means nothing with dynamics like the ones between Oliver and I. I have as much control speaking over this phone as I do in person, but I doubt the same could be said of your... relationship. You rely too much on hands and violence for that, from what I understand, which are rather useless when not in the same room."_

This time, Slade outright laughs. "If you think I can't call Oliver up and get him to do whatever I want, you're kidding yourself, Russian. It's just not as important to me, since I _get_ to have him in person. I think you do this over the phone because you _can't_. Or are you just not as good in person?"

Oliver shivers, lowering his head and trying to let go of the conversation over him. It's not his business, not right now. He's not part of the decision making; his only purpose is to serve and he's _doing_ that. What his doms do outside of that, it… it isn't his business. Nothing should be unless it's directly spoken to him; not plans, or arguments, or even his name. Unless he's addressed, he isn't present. Seen, but not heard, not listening. _Obeying._ (He'd forgotten just what it was like when there were distractions like this; all of his over-the-phone sessions with Anatoli have been private.)

_"Perhaps you should come to Russia, Slade. Bring Oliver and you can see exactly how good he is for me. That would settle things, don't you think?"_

"Well, that would be up to the kid, now wouldn't it? Maybe you've forgotten he's a _person_ , and neither of us has got the right to order him off to a different continent if he doesn't want to go. You can order him around in a scene all you want, but you abuse your hold on him and I'll kill you myself, regardless of how much he'll hate it. Got that?"

Anatoli's voice is sharp, displeased, after another moment of silence. _"You've misjudged me. I would not force Oliver to do anything he did not like, and he likes more than you give him credit for. I think, perhaps, neither of us fits his needs in full. Perhaps we can… learn to coexist. Separately."_ Slade grunts, somewhat in acknowledgement. _"Oliver,"_ Anatoli says then, just as sharp. _"Are you prepared?"_

The call to attention jolts him a bit, but he swallows, takes a breath, and answers, "Yes, sir." He doesn't stop the movement of his fingers though; he's open enough for Slade but each extra bit will help, and he hasn't been ordered to. Until he's given new orders, he'll stick to fulfilling the old one.

_"Slade, if you wouldn't mind having a seat?"_

Slade pauses for a moment, but then gives a gruff, "Sure," and starts to move. There's a chair around the edge of the table, where they were planning earlier, and Slade drags it out and spins it to face the room before sitting down.

_"Oliver, ride him. Take off what you need to, but no more."_

Right. That _was_ the end goal, wasn't it? Oliver takes another deep breath, bites his lip on automatic to stifle the moan that wants to slip free along with his fingers, and then crawls towards Slade. He wipes his hand off on his own skin, lacking any cloth to do otherwise, and then kneels up between Slade's legs and lifts his hands to easily, efficiently, take apart the button and zipper of his pants. It's simple enough, familiar, even if this particular configuration of events is new. He's done all the pieces individually, just...

Slade raises his hips to let Oliver slide the pants and briefs down to mid-thigh, before he braces his hands and pushes himself up to straddle Slade's lap. His knees just _barely_ fit onto the chair on either side; he'll have to be careful about that. He lifts his gaze a bit as he situates himself to the right position, and finds Slade looking at him with easy, warm appreciation. Somehow, he can't help flushing just a bit, and Slade's mouth curls into a slow smirk, hands lifting to curl around his hips with light, guiding pressure. Slade leans a bit forward, and buried habits fight with automatic action. He meets the kiss, and Slade gives a low, approving hum of sound that makes his gut tighten in all the best ways.

He reaches down, back behind himself, to curl a hand around Slade's cock and line it up right. He feels the hot brush of it, adjusts a little more, and then gives a small groan into Slade's mouth as he rocks his hips down to lower himself onto it. His head tilts back at the feeling, breaking the kiss more by accident than design, his eyes staying closed as he slowly seats Slade fully inside himself. He shudders a bit at the feeling, and Slade's hands flex on his hips, pulling slightly down at the same time as he flexes upwards, as if there were any further he could go.

A mouth finds Oliver's shoulder, grazing teeth and lips over his skin, and he finds himself tilting into it. Held down, currently, by the grip on his hips, but still capable of bracing his hands against Slade's shoulders and pressing up into the tease of his mouth. Slade bites down, as if in reward, and he groans at the feeling, pushes into the sharp ache as he curls his fingers into the fabric of the shirt beneath them. Then the hands on his hips push slightly upwards, and he automatically follows the prompt to shift upwards, bracing his knees a little more firmly so that he can raise himself into an easy, practiced roll.

From there, pattern beckons. Slade's hands are a light guide, but mostly he falls into the easy obedience of riding; something so much more common in this game than any other position. His service, his effort. He lets his sounds fall free without trying to muffle them, tightening himself on every upwards slide until Slade is giving strangled, rough sounds of his own, alongside curses and muttered growls of his name. He takes pride in that, letting himself push to be better, to make it better for Slade. He knows all the little tricks; knows everything Slade likes (even if he can't do most of them without breaking the imposed rules that Anatoli's sessions always come with.

(Touch no more than necessary unless ordered. Don't speak unless requested. Obey all orders.)

Slade's grip slips between holding his hips, tight enough to almost hurt, and then loose enough to barely be guiding him at all. The mouth against his skin stays, biting marks into his shoulders and collarbone nearly as much as just kissing at it instead, avoiding his throat with a care he doesn't usually show (he's always complained about Slade leaving marks on his throat; he has a _life_ outside all this and he hides enough bruises already). Though it comes secondary, Oliver can feel his own desire twisting in his gut, building at the base of his spine.

He tightens his grip in Slade's shirt and pushes it back, forcing himself to focus on the precise movement of his body instead. A trick he learned a long time ago; Anatoli's never allowed him to reach his own release without permission, no matter what else he's doing. He isn't going to earn punishment, not like this, not while he's on display. He's better than that.

"Come on, kid," Slade mutters against his throat, pulling him into a harder downwards rock of motion. "You can move faster. Come on."

Oliver isn't sure whether he obeys because it's half a command, or just because he _wants_ to, but he pushes himself into moving faster, into following the increasing pace of Slade's guiding hands to all but slam down onto him. Slade encourages him with growled words, with the press of fingers hard enough into his hips to bruise (no one will be looking there). It's more than good enough to stoke that fire building below his stomach, and he arches his back as he fights not to give into that, fights to bring Slade to pleasure first.

Luckily, he succeeds.

Slade growls, moans, and yanks him down as he grinds up. Oliver can feel the pulse inside him, the dull sensation of heat that pairs with the minuscule upward rocks of Slade's hips that's part of the picture that tells him that Slade's reached his peak. So is the breath, hot and heavy against his skin, and the flex of fingers that have slid up to his waist. Oliver shivers, closes his eyes a little harder and tries not to move or chase his own release. Not without permission.

He holds himself on the edge there for a couple dozen seconds, holding as still as he can manage to let Slade fully enjoy his aftershocks. Then, Slade lifts his head, mouth grazing along his throat, hand sliding in and wrapping around the length of his cock. Oliver does his best not to actually whimper, or buck too hard into the touch. He has to gasp and then bite his own lip to stifle the sound, as he fights with the desire to let the sensation overtake him. Slade's grip is practiced, nearly perfect around him like it always is and he— he—

Oliver gives a strangled, dry sob, curling his fingers tightly enough into Slade's shirt that his fingers ache. Anything to distract him from—

"Come on, kid," Slade says, low and rough, coaxing.

 _"He'll need permission,"_ comes the sudden voice, and Oliver almost startles. He'd nearly forgotten that Anatoli was still there. (Speaking a little lower now; aroused.) _"Demand it, and he'll come."_

By the way Slade grunts, he doesn't fully like that idea, but he still growls, " _Come_ , kid. _Now_."

Oliver registers the words, and relaxes his resistance. His back arches, body tensing up as he cries out, rocking into Slade's hand as the release crashes over him. He can hear Slade give a low curse, strained as opposed to angry but background to the blood rushing past his ears and the way his senses are overtaken by the orgasm. He can only breathe, and _feel_.

Hands slide around him, pulling him out of the arch and up against fabric and a warm, solid chest. He goes limp and boneless a moment later, his head dipping into the crook of a neck and shoulder, his senses buzzing as he tries to just… just…

"That's it, kid," Slade murmurs into the side of his temple. "Relax."

He shifts, and Slade's arms wrap around him a little more securely then carefully ease him up just a bit, until Slade slips from him. Oliver shivers, clenching down around the feeling of nothingness. It's… uncomfortable, almost, but not in a way that isn't familiar. He just needs a bit of time to acclimate.

 _"Well, that was quite a show."_ Anatoli's voice is still a little lower than it should be; a tone he recognizes. Slade tilts his head towards the phone, one arm sliding away from Oliver's back. _"Now that it's done, he'll need—”_

The sound of the call being ended makes Oliver twitch, and Slade gives a grunt that's definitely pleased. "I know how to do aftercare, you self-important dick," Slade grumbles. A breath, a kiss to the side of Oliver's skull. "You did good, kid. Scene's done, you can relax."

Oliver takes a slow breath, pressing a little closer and obeying the implicit command.

Slade lets him, for a few moments, before murmuring, "You're not going to be comfortable like that for long, kid. Come on, let's get you over on the couch, hm? I'll grab you some water, even come sit with you. I know you like all the closeness afterwards."

He's a little too far into floating to verbally answer, but he gives a small sound of agreement and then lets Slade move him, shifting off the chair and being half-carried over to the couch pressed against the wall of the room. He settles down, his eyelids drooping, and before he knows it there's a blanket being tucked around him and a water bottle pressed into his hand. Slade sits down next to Oliver, gathering him in under an arm and letting him rest against his chest. He fits neatly into the space, as he always has (ever since he was younger and stupidly naive and Slade was his only chance at surviving the island).

"You good, kid? Need anything?" Oliver shakes his head, presses closer, and Slade chuckles. "Drink some of that water for me, then you can stay here as long as you like."

That, he takes Slade up on. He drains about a third of the bottle, then settles in and just lets himself be. It takes a decent amount of time for him to come back to himself, and to finish the bottle of water.

It isn't until he does that he takes in a deep breath, and shifts more purposefully against Slade, looking up. To find Slade already looking down, watching him with eyes that are softer than he's used to seeing them. But then, usually he's not coming off the ending of another dom's control. Slade reaches up to stroke fingers down the side of his face, to tilt his chin a little further up. He leans into the touch.

"Back with me?" Slade asks, head tilting a bit as he watches Oliver.

"Yeah." Oliver shifts, stretches his legs out a little bit and then gives a small groan at the way his thighs ache a bit. Nothing like sex to give the legs a workout, especially that position. "It was kind of rude," he comments, "hanging up on him like that."

Slade shrugs, mouth twisting a bit into something not altogether pleased. "Well, I'm a dick then. Didn't need his help to ease you back out; like he thinks I've never done any of this before."

He winces a bit, as he straightens his leg a little more. "Well, if you hadn't it would have been necessary information. Wouldn't you rather unnecessary information than the alternative?"

A huff of breath. "Yeah, I suppose." Slade runs fingers through Oliver's hair, nails scraping just hard enough to draw a pleased groan from him. "Not a fan of him, but I guess I won't kill the Russian bastard just yet. Long as he doesn't piss me off too much."

"You're a saint," Oliver mocks, which earns him a light swat to the back of his head. He ducks his head into Slade's chest to escape it, cheek rubbing against the fabric of the semi-formal shirt he's in. "Why not?"

The fingers return to his scalp.

"I might not like how much of a controlling prick he is," Slade says, voice low, "or what it makes you act like, but I could see how you were enjoying yourself. In a way. I respect your choices, kid. Long as he doesn't abuse his control, or hurt you, I'll leave him be."

He tilts his head back again, so he can look up and see Slade's expression. His gaze is fixed somewhere across the room. "What don't you like?"

"Full of questions, aren't you?" Slade asks, as his gaze snaps back. Oliver offers a small shrug, but holds that gaze. "Kid, you've got a hell of a spine to you, and I don't like seeing you bend it for anyone who doesn't work for it. People should have to earn having you under them, not just snap their fingers and have you on the ground. If that's what you like…” Slade shrugs, looks away again. "I don't want to do that to you, but if you want to get it from that Russian, I'm not going to stop you. Different needs; I get it."

Oliver considers that for a moment, then says, "It's a… different feeling. With him I can… not think. I can get out of my head and just do what he says; it's freeing." Slade shifts a bit, and Oliver is quick to add on, "But with you I can… unleash. I can fight, and struggle, and just give in to all of that feeling without having to worry what anyone thinks about me, you know, looking like some kind of animal. It's like being back on the island, almost. It's… simple." He thinks about it for another moment, as Slade makes an understanding, wordless sound, and then says, "I like both. I _want_ both."

Slade snorts, pushes lightly at the back of his head. "So have both, kid. Just maybe don't get us in the same room, or at the same time. Apparently that doesn't work."

"Well _I'm_ not the one that made it happen. _Someone_ answered the phone when I told him not to." Slade pushes a little harder, gives a teasing growl, and Oliver tilts his head up against the pressure to say, "And _someone_ had a passive aggressive argument over my head for the whole scene."

"Not like arguments are one-sided," Slade mutters, but doesn't shove his head down again. "I'm not going to do it again, kid, promise. Good enough?"

Oliver lowers his head again, and lets himself sink into Slade's side again. "Yeah. Yeah, that's good enough."

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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